


Soft Smut Sunday

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-14 19:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15395976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: The Soft Smut Sunday drabbles. Mostly previously posted on tumblr; many copied over from my tumblr collection.





	1. Alley

Greg closes his eyes. Nothing worse than reality interrupting this perfect moment. Lips on his neck, a little rough with the teeth in a good way. A body pressing him against the wall, scent surrounding him, blocking out the real world for these few precious moments. He sank back, allowing the weight to mould against him, hips fitting to his as his head lolls to the side, mute begging for more from the lips and the teeth.

It is easily accommodated.

His ears are filled with the rush of blood, still partly attributable to the chase he only just got out of in one piece. Mycroft showing up had brought things to a swift end, and as the thug had been whisked away they had stumbled into the alley, kissing, grasping, affirming life and connection and lust.

Greg knew he would always come out of it looking like he’d been thoroughly snogged up against an alley wall, while Mycroft might be returning from meeting the Queen, for all their encounters mussed him up. Greg didn’t care, feeling the familiar roll of hips against his, just once. Mycroft never let things get out of hand here, that would wait for home. This was about touch, life, marking each other with the invisible ghost of the other to keep them safe until they met once again at home.

Then things would really get interesting.


	2. Sunday

Sundays were their day, and Greg loved it. Years of patience, of waking as Mycroft slipped out in the middle of the night to avert some crisis, of wincing as he disturbed Mycroft when he was the one dragged out of bed by work. Years of missed dinners, of passing like ships in the night, and finally,  _finally,_  they were both able to carve out this regular time in their week.

Even an international crisis wasn’t enough to draw Mycroft away anymore. There were enough others – younger, more enthusiastic employees – to hold the fort for twenty-four hours. Especially when they both knew what the day would hold, undisturbed in their haven. It was a powerful motivator.

There would be waking up together. Soft words, soft hands, soft skin heralding the beginning of their day together. Slow words, whispered under covers, giggles turning to gasps as lips found sensitive spots without guessing. Time together had made each body as familiar as the other, and the intimacy drew a cloak of comfort around them both.

A shower or bath was theoretically for cleaning up, though the words and the hand and the skin were still present, drawing out the perfunctory into a luxurious experience most Sundays. Greg loved leaning against the tiles, head on bent arms as Mycroft washed his hair. It was slow and unhurried, the whole day ahead to worship each other. Inevitably, his fingers would drift lower, caressing nipples, the shape of Greg’s arse, holding his cock as it filled out. The water over his skin was glorious as Mycroft fucked him open, long fingers stretching him, sparking heat through his abdomen. Greg panted into the humid air, Mycroft’s hand gliding over his skin, stroking him until he groaned and called Mycroft’s name.

Sundays were their day, and Greg loved it.


	3. Symphony - Stamstrade

“Yes?”

“Yes,” breathed Greg, the heat from his words pressing into his lover’s hair.

Mike’s fingers were careful and precise as always, moving across Greg’s skin like poetry. Greg gasped as Mike found the sensitive spots he loved, the symphony of their lovemaking as always a testament to how well they knew each other.

“Please,” Greg whispered, arching into Mike’s touch. He closed his eyes, breath stuttering as fingers breached him, pressed into him.

“Moan for me, pet,” Mike encouraged him, pressing gentle lips to his collarbone.

Greg’s mouth fell open, waves of pleasure building. He was helpless to do anything but please his Mike, moaning his desire, sharing it with Mike, making it theirs.

“Come for me,” Mike whispered, pressing expert fingers, finding the core of Greg and sending blinding white through his body. Greg’s fingers clenched, tightening around Mike’s shoulders, mirroring his lower body as it tightened around Mike’s fingers.

“Mike, Mike,” Greg panted, holding him close, loving him hard.


	4. Late Night Wake Up

“Greg?”

The voice was quiet, but Greg woke immediately. He hummed and rolled to the side, reaching automatically for Mycroft. When he found only empty sheets – warm, but vacant – Greg’s eyes opened.

“My?” Greg blinked against the light. “Whazzup?”

“Greg.” The questioning tone was gone, but Greg could still hear an inviting thread in his lover’s voice.

“Where are you?” Greg asked, pushing his way out from under the covers.

“Bathroom,” came the short reply.

Greg stumbled over, scrubbing at his eyes as he followed Mycroft’s summons. “Mycroft? Are you-oh.”

The lights were dimmed, but there was enough to take in the scene.

And what a scene.

Mycroft, seated in the bath, surrounded by bubbles. Scented bubbles, Greg could tell even from the doorway.

His eyes took in other details.

Champagne.

Strawberries.

Low music he’d not initially registered.

“Long day?” Greg asked, smiling at last.

Mycroft hummed in response, relaxing as he registered Greg’s amusement rather than irritation at his late night wake up call.

Greg slid out of his pyjama bottoms, sinking into the water, pressing against Mycroft’s skin.

“Maybe we can put that behind you,” Greg murmured, kissing Mycroft hello.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “I would very much like to do so.”

Greg was still asleep enough to remember the midnight interlude in snapshots.

Lips, teeth, tongues tangling, slow and familiar. Comforting.

Whispered promises, assurances, sweet nothings.

Hands stroking and pressing, loving skin, ghosting through the water with ease.

Greg panting into Mycroft’s collarbone, ecstasy blooming through him.

The taste of Mycroft’s earlobe, tinted with bubbles and strawberries.

Hot breath in his ear, firm flesh tight in his grip, a rush of satisfaction as Mycroft came hard against him.

More words, quiet nothings.

Warm towels.

Cool sheets.

Safe haven.


	5. Soft Smut/Slightly Silly

“So many colours…” Greg murmured.

His mouth trailed up Mycroft’s thigh, tasting the delicate hairs. Gold, russet, deep auburn.

Mycroft was a true ginger, each individual hair a different shade. The sun changed it. Wetness changed it – like when Greg nosed up that trembling inner thigh, examining the shades before licking a stripe wet and filthy, fascinated to see the darker versions of the same colours, plastered to pale skin by his tongue.

Mycroft never held still so he could get a really good look, but that didn’t matter. The colours could blur together as Mycroft shook for him, breath cooling the skin beneath, teasing him as Greg took his sweet time.

______________________________________

 

“Golden sunset. Russet. Tangerine. Marmalade. Ancient Bronze. True Honey…”

Mycroft frowned through the haze of arousal.

“Wha…” he swallowed hard as fingers grazed his nipple. “Greg-ory. What are…”

“What am I doing?” Greg asked. He paused, looking up at Mycroft.

Good Lord, Mycroft thought. Those eyes peering up from between his legs…he would never tire of that sight.

He nodded.

“I am naming the colours I can see.” Greg replied,  _those eyes_  glinting in amusement.

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

Mycroft struggled to formulate the question that was buzzing insistently in his mind. “But…the colours…names of the colours…where…”  
“Mmmm,” Greg replied, turning his attention to the other thigh.

“Marmalade over here.” He licked a wide path, wresting a groan from Mycroft. “but more…Ancient Bronze when it’s wet.”

“Gregory!” Mycroft bit out, panting.

Greg took pity, resting his chin on Mycroft’s quadriceps. “Remember when you dragged me to choose paint colours for the new kitchen, and I said I didn’t care, and you went off in a huff to the other end of the sample wall to look at shades of blue?”

Mycroft nodded. The fingers were still grazing his nipple, and it sorely tested his concentration.

“I was still looking at samples.”

“You were…matching paint samples…”

“To the shades of your leg hairs, yes,” Greg confirmed, grinning. “More fun than kitchen cabinets.” He licked higher, nosing along the crease of Mycroft’s hip. “Not just your legs, Mycroft.”

Mycroft groaned.

“Your skin here is somewhere between Ivory and White Linen,” Greg whispered, kissing along the crease. He paused.

To Mycroft’s alarm, he felt Greg start to shake.

“Gregory?” he asked, and when there was no answer he sat up, tugging at his lover, anxiety threading through him.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Greg gasped as Mycroft pulled him upright.

He was laughing.

“What…why are you  _laughing_?” Mycroft asked. His heart was pounding in confusion – first arousal, then anxiety, then the dread that he had done something, said something to bring Gregory to tears. And now…mirth?

“I was just wondering if perhaps, next time I could pick up some sample cards,” Greg said, the skin around his eyes crinkling as his chuckles escaped his restraint. “Check if I’m right.”

Mycroft blinked, the image rising in his mind. Greg with a handful of paint colours, comparing them to the hairs on his body. Checking off the most ridiculous names, giggling like a schoolchild at the silly, loving play.

It was breath-taking to be allowed to see such intimacy, to be part of it.

Mycroft allowed one eyebrow to rise, his lips to fold into the smirk he often used to preview a particularly naughty idea.

Greg’s breath caught.

 _Good, he’s made that connection_ , Mycroft thought with satisfaction.

“Silver.” Mycroft said. When Greg looked confused, he added, “Slate Grey. Graphite. Ash White. Charcoal.” To make his point, he threaded fingers into Greg’s hair, tugging gently on the strands.

“Turnabout is fair play, Gregory.”

“True,” Greg replied, unable to hide the thread of desire in his roughened voice. “So back to the paint aisle, then?”

“Oh, I think so,” Mycroft agreed, pulling Greg in close once again. “But not quite yet.”


	6. Before

It was remarkable how little Greg had known Mycroft Before.

Before Sherlock fell back into his old ways, and Greg spent whole nights sitting in his hospital room, willing him to pull through.

Before he’d seen Mycroft’s façade crack, when the nephrologist told him Sherlock’s body couldn’t handle it much longer, they’d probably need to find a donor.

That had been the catalyst, the final straw. When the doctor left, Mycroft must have forgotten Greg was even there. His bowed head and shaking hands betrayed his emotion, but it was the tears, falling to the floor as his silent sobs wracked his body.

They broke Greg’s heart.

He didn’t speak, just pushed off the wall he’d been propping up (or was it the other way around?) and slid his arms around Mycroft.

He was so far gone he didn’t even stiffen, didn’t pull away.

The Iceman melted into Greg, and they stood in the middle of the sterile hospital room, sharing their grief for the frail figure in the bed by the window.

That was when Greg vowed to care for Mycroft.

Two hours later they were in Mycroft’s flat, Greg’s hands gently washing shampoo from Mycroft’s hair, and then his own.

His hands learned Mycroft’s body that night. The soap was an excuse for touch, a reason to slide over shoulders and chest, legs and belly and finally, hesitantly, into the deep auburn hair at the apex of his legs.

That was when Greg really saw him, saw the emotion he’d hidden for so long beneath the suits and haughty expression.

It was glorious.

The night was a collage of skin and lips, salty liquid licked from skin, heat and gasping breaths.

It was affirmation of life, of Mycroft’s worth and Greg’s, and the strength that grew from their bodies surrounded them both, girding them for the days ahead.

It was the beginning of Them.


	7. Ease Your Way

Greg rolled his neck, wincing at both the protesting muscles and the icy water that slid down his collar. The crime scene was the classic ‘rainy late night’ which was neither as exciting nor as interesting as film noir made it seem. The crime was ordinary, the lack of evidence unimportant, given the free confession of the spurred loved – and Greg had wet toes. He’d been meaning to replace his work shoes for ages, but eventually the job had caught up with him. Now, the sad little digit wriggled uncomfortably.

“Might I suggest something to ease your way, Detective Inspector?”

Greg turned at the sound, grinning before he saw Mycroft’s face. “Christ, yes. Save me from this.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. He murmured a few words to the DCI who’d been called in, then returned to take Greg by the arm.

“Shall we?”

“You’re a keeper,” Greg told him as soon as they made it into Mycroft’s flat. With a slight smile, Mycroft began stripping Greg’s damp clothes from his chilled body. He was shivering, despite the warm air. Mycroft’s hands were warm and businesslike, but Greg’s body was still doing its best to respond.

“Bath?” Mycroft murmured, finally freeing Greg’s toes from his wet socks.

“Mmmm,” Greg replied, as Mycroft kissed his way back up to Greg’s face. Their kisses were soft, the quiet warmth embracing them as the seconds ticked by. Finally, Mycroft turned, taking Greg by the hand and leading him down the hall to their en suite. The bath had been filling since before they arrived home – a luxury Greg would never scoff at given how often the current situation occurred.

“Join me?” Greg asked, sinking into the water. He watched as Mycroft removed his own clothes, one hand stroking lightly over his own skin, echoing the swirling caress of the water. When Mycroft joined him, their wet skin slid together beautifully. It was this which relaxed Greg more than the warmth or quiet. The gentle slip of hands ghosting over skin, soap aiding the smooth path. Bubble forming, the clear water turning slowly opaque as the soap traced up and down both bodies. When Mycroft turned over, reaching for Greg’s thighs, a matching grin spread over Greg’s face as he nodded his head. The sensation of fingertips skating up his inner thighs was unreal, the touch so light as to be mistaken for the water.

Mycroft’s fist around his cock was firm.

Unmistakable.

Greg sighed, his head tipping back.

This was what he needed.


	8. Greg Loved...

Greg loved that he didn’t have to tell Mycroft what he needed any more.

“Rough day?”

“Not the best.”

A few words, a tired smile, and Mycroft knew.

He knew Greg needed to be kissed deeply, pressed against the wall. He knew Greg wanted to be overwhelmed with him, drawn out of his mind and into their connection. Clothes stripped as lungs burned, pulling oxygen deep. Mouths pressing along skin stretched over bones.

The wallpaper in their sitting room was textured. Greg knew because it scratched against his cheek when Mycroft turned him around. It rasped against sensitive skin as his cock thickened and hardened, Mycroft’s fingers rubbing tantalisingly down the sides of his groin, close but not touching his cock. Face pressed to Greg’s lower back, or the back of his thighs, hot breath warming the skin…

“Fuck…please, Mycroft, please…”

A few words, a gasped breath, and Mycroft knew.

He knew it was time to grip Greg’s hips, pulling him back, making space for a tall body folded down to crouch on the floor; a face pressed into the cleft of his arse, a tongue pressing against his entrance. He knew how to start slowly, making Greg groan, long and hard as it began, as the first edges wore off his work-roughened thoughts. How to wind slowly, making everything wet, listening to the shudder and shake and quiet cursing that marked the road to Greg’s oblivion.

When the shuddering broke into rocking, it was time. Time for Mycroft to rise, to press with two fingers as his cock sat under Greg’s balls, a gentle reminder that for Mycroft, too, this was glory, worship. Time for teeth in Greg’s trapezius, initially gentle, a promise of what was to come, if he wanted.

He always wanted.

Fingers pressing in, not enough but necessary, another step towards what he really needed. Skimming over that place inside, tiny burst of white hot arousal pulsing out as they did. It burned a little, two fingers with only spit to slick them. He wanted it to. He loved that Mycroft knew it, but understood that half the point was the sharp-hot sensation, making him pay attention, refusing to allow him to wallow part-way still at work. This had to be his whole focus. Mycroft worked him slowly, relishing Greg’s insistence that he take his time, enjoy it fully before they moved on. Sometimes it was faster, pistoning into his body, almost forcing an orgasm before he could think; other times Greg found himself begging, pleading for more before Mycroft would consider anything else.

He loved it all.

Today Mycroft’s mouth pressed against the teeth marks in his shoulder, whispering words, quiet, for Greg’s ears alone. “Tell me where you want me.”

“H-here.”

“Right here?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg gasped. His head dropped forward, resting on the wall as Mycroft reached his free hand to the lube in his pocket. The fingers inside him never stopped as Greg heard slick sounds of lube moving from bottle to fingers to cock; it was as a bell to Pavlov’s dogs, ramping him up for what would happen next.

Fingers slid out.

Mycroft’s cock slid in, unapologetic and steady. He was taller than Greg, his hips higher; it meant he could press deep, filling Greg as they joined, moans and curses mingling in the air as he pushed into Greg’s body. The stretch was the final prompt; it allowed everything else to slide away from Greg. There was only this. Only he and Mycroft, one being, moving fast, skin slapping, bodies stretching and pressing and loving together.

It wiped his mind, replaced his consciousness with sensation. The only words in his mind described his body _(open, full, shaking)_ and Mycroft’s _(perfect, hard, hot)_ and their fucking _(fast, harder, wet, harder, harder)_ and his oddly religious begging _(oh God please please Myc please Christ oh God)._

Teeth on muscle again, biting hard this time, sharp points of pain sparking pleasure, radiating through skin and muscle and bone, clenching deep, joining the pulsating oblivion in shattering Greg into a million million pieces as he screamed Mycroft’s name.

Greg loved that he didn’t have to tell Mycroft what he needed any more.

 


End file.
